


Hey. Wanna go set a forest on fire?

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: Emanon [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Agender Character, Codependency, Fantasy, Fire fire everywhere bitch, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Phoenixes, Pyromania, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone looks at them and turns away in disgust. "Look at that thing!" says Everyone, "Are those scorch marks? It's a pheonix! How stupid can it be?"</p><p>Mick Rory is not Everyone. He looks at them and sees something undefineable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey. Wanna go set a forest on fire?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [believesinponds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/believesinponds/gifts).



> No, I didn't intend for this to happen, but hey. Let it happen.
> 
> Dedicated to believesinponds because. Hey. She deserves it. Let it happen.

~~~~There's no big hatching, no birthmark. Just a twelve year old foster kid with a match.

Parents Number 18 call him Michael, like somehow a "refined" name will change who he is. Yet Mick doesn't feel broken, and he certainly don't feel like he needs fixing. Everyone else might not see fire the way he does (he'll never understand how that could be, given that fire has been  _everything_ since the dawn of humankind) but he can't see how that's his problem. _To each their own_ ; ain't that what Everyone preaches?

Fucking hypocrites.

Mick skips out on dinner. By now, Parents Number 18 know better than to stop him. He gives 'em another week, tops, before sending him back to the Home.

Family homestead's abandoned as ever, charred remains echoing in Mick's ears and wafting into his nose. Now this was a home. This was Mama singing old songs with her stereo while she baked; this was the Old Man whistling while he worked, smelling like corn and horse shit; this was Mick lighting the fireplace with no care in the world.

He should feel guilty for standing fixated where he was, watching this home burn. Should feel regret over thinking about how beautiful the flames were instead of going to get help.

Should, should, should. Mick should do a lotta things. Everyone says so.

He lights another match instead.

* * *

Mick meets them while he's walking through the woods, fantasizing the whole place lighting up by his hand. It's not for want of destruction, nor is it even about making others suffer. Some people paint; Mick Rory sets things ablaze.

They agree. He knows because that's the first time he sees 'em: their entire body is on fire, swimming in a sea of glorious flame. Trees topple and groan, their bright ending so much better than Mick could've imagined.

Fire's always like that. Undefineable. Better. A glorious evolution Mick will never tire of watching.

They sing, chords irrevocably hoarse with smoke. Hands down best song Mick's ever going to hear.

In awe of this majesty, Mick watches for hours and hours, unaware of time passing or things he should be doing. It's a tragedy when everything fades to smoldering embers, so much so that Mick's heart aches.

"Raaa!" comes another choked song.

He squints in the twilight, trying to peer at the wonderful creature who wrought such a masterpiece. Bright, burnt orange feathers guide his way.

"Hey!" Mick barks, gaining the phoenix's startled attention. Feathers puff. "Whoa, whoa, no need for that. I was just wonderin' if you'd do it again."

It's the start of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

Mick's thirteen and sporting a black eye from Parents Number 25 when they offer their bond.

It's become a little tradition of theirs: around three, Mick walks to the forest outside Central City, meets up with them near the edge. They let him on their back, and together they fly around in search for a good place to burn. That day's choice was an old junkyard.

Now, Mick's thrown and taken quite a few punches. Doesn't mean he's used to takin' 'em from a parent, no matter if he doesn't even know her name. Fire distracts him, curls around him like safety, like home. But eventually embers return with a vengeance, and he's left cold again.

He hates the cold. (Oh, the irony.)

They brush their feathered cheek against his, burn marks over smooth skin. Mick immediately feels better.

"Thanks bud," he mutters.

That's when a heated consciousness ignites the back of his head. Mick gives a violent start.

"Aw babe, you don't want me," are his first words, "I can't sing for shit. Besides, somethin' like you deserves a lot more."

But they sing in his head, a song for fire. Blazing, bright, evolving and devolving and evolving again in rolling flames. Mick can't help reaching back.

"You want me, you got me," he says, "but don't come cryin' to me when you see what you did."

They never do.

* * *

Mick turns eighteen. Gets kicked outta the system. They're waiting for him on the other side of the doors, belting a flight song.

Don't care if they're taking up the whole sidewalk. Don't care if Everyone recoils. Only care that their rider's coming home.

Mick loves them as surely as the sun burns.

* * *

One year later, he's making his way through the underground. He can burn all the stuff he wants, kill all he wants, with his phoenix burning at his side. It's a sweet gig.

Latest boss' getting ready for the big meet n' greet with latest crew. (Mick doesn't bother counting these.)

Mick's sitting on one of the big crates in the shopping warehouse, legs dangling over the edge. Their wings are draped lazily on his shoulders, as is always the case when they're relaxed like this. It's a good vantage point; from up here, Mick can scout every member from the latest crew.

He flicks his lighter. Been doing it several minutes when a flat voice calls up to him: "I don't suppose you'll let us join you?"

Boss said there'd be another rider for this job. Didn't say the phoenix couldn't even carry a human yet.

This man looks to be a couple years older than Mick, with a smirk he wants to punch, then lick after. Worn leather jacket and jeans, dark shirt, boots. Blue phoenix perched on his padless shoulder. Claws dig in, but this guy don't even blink.

Yeah, Mick's interested.

He grunts a toneless note. They release a guttural vibrato.

Consent granted, Mick replies, "Might as well get to know each other. My buddy here'll come getcha."

Blue takes flight, landing a few feet from Mick. Rider still doesn't flinch when they scoop him up and place him beside his companion.

Four of 'em get situated. Mick an' them return to how they were. But Blue, about the size of a parrot, nudges the hem of Guy's shirt. Couple seconds later, Blue's a lump beneath dark fabric.

Guy idly strokes his lump, eyes ahead. Mick laughs, unheeding of the glare shot his way.

"Name's Mick."

Guy doesn't let up on the glare, but responds nonetheless, "Leonard Snart. This is..." his lips purse.

Mick shrugs, "Yeah. I've got no name for 'em either."

Glare lessens into mild interest. They get to talkin'. Nothing personal, just about the job ahead. Leonard Snart's a cold son of a bitch, and Mick can't stand it.

But it turns out they work together well. Too well for Mick to ignore. He knows Lenny sees it.

"We're organizing a job of our own," says Lenny, "care to join us?"

They croak eagerness. For his part, Mick doesn't even consider saying no.

* * *

Couple years pass. Three of them grow, and Mick's lovely They, well. They finished growing a long time ago.

Mick jacks Lenny off a few times, takes him apart until he and his phoenix sing. But they never cross any line.

* * *

Funny enough, it's their phoenixes who mate first.

Lenny's phoenix happens to have a receptive organ while Mick's happens to have a giving. Although much larger, they wrap their partner in their great wings and mates with xem like xe's the most precious thing they'll ever touch, giving xem their fire.

Mick feels every pleasurable second. So does Lenny.

Fuck, he looks so damn pretty, flushed and dazed against that wall. Jeans're rented like Mick's, but of course Lenny doesn't touch.

Until his blue crows, and his head jolts to the side, lips parting, and Mick can't take it anymore.

"You want it?" he demands. Lenny replies by unbuckling his belt.

Mick fucks him hard and fast, the antithesis of them, hands hot and kneading under Len's thighs. Len claws and scratches his shoulders like his blue's talons, taking every inch of Mick, all loose and willing and--

Heat and cold collide with enough force to create a star, twining and twisting together until they're a seamless, taught string. Mick and Len moan into each other's open mouths.

Funny enough, not much changes.

* * *

Mick and Len separate because Lenny is a fucking idiot. He gives his bondmate time to cool off, knowing he'll come around sometime.

Doesn't expect to have to wait so long.

They keep visiting xem. Mick understands.

The Flash comes zipping into the picture. Lenny finally flies to Keystine.

"Still don't have a name for 'em yet?"

Mick scratches their molting feathers. "Nope."

Knowing he's been given one chance, Len makes sure he doesn't waste it. He gives his little speech, throwing every ounce of persuasion he's got into his voice, his actions. Like he needs it.

Mick lets him say his pretty words, knowing Lenny'll feel better for it. When at last he's finished his spiel, he waits in silence.

It doesn't even cross Mick's mind not to answer, "Yeah, buddy. I'm in."

* * *

More time passes.

Mick has a home with four walls again.

They rumble low in their chest, a note far below any decibel humans can do. Mick hums back, flicking on his blowtorch.

Cold is dormant. Late night flight; xe and Lenny're clonked out under Mick's jacket, xe under xir rider's shirt too.

"Y'know," Lisa says, stroking her dragon's gold head, "I don't think I've ever seen him sleep in the open before."

For the Rogues are tip-toeing around Lenny and his blue as best they can, surrounding their leaders as they go about their business. Not a twitch from the couch.

Mick shrugs a shoulder, "Home ain't considered in the open, Lise."

She whips around to face him. Her eyes are slightly wide.

Then, she smiles, small and genuine. "Yeah," she whispers, "I guess home's like that."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on my phone, so please have mercy on the typos. It's not their fault.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Lisa is next.


End file.
